063. Fire walk with me

Îi văd silueta feminină, neomodernist pictată prin focul stârnit pe bârnele de lemn. O văd desculță, cu fața acoperită parțial de părul lung până la talie, îi văd pistruii și obrajii zâmbind ca o didascalie improvizată, adăugată într-un ultim moment. Îi văd brațele nepăsătoare pe lângă corp și copilul ce s-a oprit să primească focul în inimă – pentru că pe acolo trec flăcările înnegrind bluza albă simplu cusută – copila ce uită că focul doare și bucățile de carne arsă, ruptă din piept îi picură pe picioarele întruchipate în podea, androgin om-lemn. În apa strâmbă din pahar îi văd din ochi, element romantic în plin naturalism al cărnii ce frige la metri în fața mea, la milimetri de pieptul meu și eu neputând opri focul, cu aripile vulturului deschise pe spate și bătând, rugându-mă din răsputeri să se oprească, împiedicându-le cu brațele cruciș, nerăzbind sub nicio formă. Deveneam oximoron, cu franchețea aripilor nonșalante și paralizia brațelor, iar obrajii cărbune continuau să zâmbească anemic, din ce în ce mai anemic, până când s-a adunat stolul de ciori scotocind cu ciocuri ferme în praful cu nuanțe de piersică de pe bârnele de lemn.

Blouse – Into Black…

054. Journey of the featherless

Idiotic and funny at the same time how I always get to the same point, regretting my summer for its amazingly short length, for myself not being able to do all the things I wanted to. I didn’t go out for a run every early morning, I didn’t finish my Dostoievski collection, I didn’t get lost on the beach. I couldn’t make it stay. Now, it always feels redundant, thinking about a tiny beautiful butterfly slipping through your fingers and the fatality of impossibility called ‘making it stay here’ without ripping his/her wings off. I don’t want to rip out any wings. I just want to chase the butterfly. And chase it, and chase it until I feel safe, at realm again, with no hesitations of thought. I was supposed to finish my book. I didn’t finish my book. I shouldn’t have let people down. Yet I did it anyhow. And all those things make me anxious, stubborn in believing that I am the killer, I am the only killer I know and the only black stain of tar on my white sheets. Killer. A mischievous Marry Poppins who, instead of fostering, nurturing, loving the children killed them all in cold blood. A detective who helped the crime remain unpunished, who raised his glass for the fail of the authorities when the killers got away.

And why do people regret so much? Why do we stumble on such things that would, otherwise, passed unnoticed? I wonder whether it’s just like the butterflies, as they slip through windows, half-open doors, secluded greens, imaginary jungles and fantasy gardens. I wonder if it’s out choice to see the butterflies as intruders or as trend-setters of nostalgia and envy, for we can’t fly and absorb light as they do. And I also wonder whether they like being chased. It must be something enjoyable with all wind hitting your face as you spin in circles above the ground, watching lunatics with giant tool trying to capture you. I guess it must be fun teasing them, watching them unable to reach to you. Hello September.

 (good-bye August)

Well my regrets about summer are just small bricks in giant walls. And sometimes I watch these walls crushing down in slow-motion. Other times, I just watch demos and tutorials. But most of the times, they crush and I inhale the dust. Anyhow, right now, I see them building themselves. And I don’t care anymore. I don’t care whether there’ll be another demo, followed by a breathtaking take-down. I don’t care about the dust they’d be trying to put on my face and hands, to curl in my hair. I just want to paint everything and let go of beautiful things, without wanting them back. Just like the butterflies who tease mankind. I won’t try to hold them still anymore. It’s who they are. And they’re great teasers, of freedom, motion and colours. I want the sea, the beach, I want a sun hanging by my dream catcher. I was small kitties playing around paper clips and sheets of papers. I want that orange dim-light at seven thirty p.m, when the sky begins to let its eyelids loose. I want the grass to
be smooth and smell nice again. I want unbearable heat to paint the leafs green and greener until they crash into a blushing gold. And I want this giant butterfly to fly freely through windows, half-open doors, secluded greens, imaginary jungles and fantasy gardens.

” If the world was mine, I’d paint it gold and green, I’d make the oceans orange for a brilliant colour scheme. “

Melody Gardot – If the stars were mine

046. Stay with me

Well they used to sing. And capture moments. They used to fly, to reach the water with their oily feathers. Those birds never got a sky or earth, only the water within without. They never separated from the ubiquity that used to surround the sun, as it faded to black and darkness at dawn, in reverse to light and sunshine. At sunset, they would gloom and forget that they had spinned counterclockwise. Birds die. They always do.

044. Welcome to my DNA (“summer is slowly dying…”)

( A tribute to the sea I left in an August bursting in heat, dim lights and gloom and to Blackfield, which I rediscovered at the same
August when rediscovering an/the old self. )

Dimineața, lumina moare. Se crapă de ziuă, lumina pușcă în fotoni monosilabici, fluturi sensibili sub neoane brutale. Dimineața crapă sub
cer, se deschide în apă, se dizolvă în alge, se pierde în sare. E răcoare și atinge buze pictate într-un monocromatism pal, fluent, pe pleoapele arse.
Motive se împrăștie în briză, se amestecă în ornamente florale ondulate. Apoi se usucă sub soare. Arde soarele. Dar nu contează. Hrănește valurile și uită de umbra de sub ele, de pânza din fier forjat ce le controlează ca o crinolină morbidă, spunându-le unde să stropească, unde să se arunce, cum să se reverse. Se înmoaie fierul sub soarele care arde, dar nu contează. Crește nivelul apei din cauza fierului topit, cald încă. Crește și se revarsă în munții din cer, privit invers de un copil cu o oglindă rotitoare, ce-l caută pe Neptun în pământul apă sau în cerul mare. Cerul cade în apă și devine scrum odată ce atinge nisipul adânc afundat în norii întunecați de fier negru.

” The last day in your life
So make an unforgettable time
Another sleepless night
And anxiety attacks

The doctor said you need some rest
But you’re always on the run
Tracing after a place to hide
You were born to your mom
Shaking hands

Wolves are out tonight
And they’re looking for a fight
‘Cause they run at the speed of light
It seems you’re home again

Don’t forget to play
While time is running out
The clock tower in the window sky

Any day can be
The last day in your life
So make an unforgettable time

Around the blinking lights
From a giant neon sign
You were born in the wrong, wrong year

Your soul is freezing ice,
But still I’m, asking for a slice
You had to feed those monster hearts
And when you’re home again

You feel you had enough, it’s like the rising of the tide
You’re a shadow just passing by
The wolves are out tonight
And they’re looking for a fight
And they run at the speed of light
It seems you’re home again. “

034. ‘Cause it’s not here

 

Woke up at 7 a.m, couldn’t keep my eyes open at 8:12 a.m, went to bed at 8:27 a.m, woke up at 8:45. On my nightstand there’s still this white plate with round, curly frames of blue, orange and yellow flowers, with some light-green leafs. They seem kind of cute. It smells like fruit, the way my summer always seemed to smell. And so, driven by this scent, I learn that there are two pieces of sour-cherry cake and three apricots. Always loved those colours. The nuance of baked cake with steamy magenta fruits inside, almost unnoticeable through the cinnamon crust. The apricots smell so nice. And this song is so nice.

Jem – Flying High

Yet, the song switches and the music I currently listen to doesn’t seem to fit. Not with summer, not with the heat outside, not with the blocked sun on my window. It doesn’t fit with anything. The only quantum that makes it a bit alike something in particular, is the outcome of a few memories coming to life again and again, while hopelessly trying to reprimand, to retrograde them, to keep them dead and buried underneath the ground, at a 4m depth. Stay there. And shut up. And so, these strings, this brutal harmony kills the butterflies in my atmosphere. And yes: “There’s a bullet in my pocket burning a hole [...]“.

The Dead Weather – So Far from your Weapon

033. Well enough alone

There are things I don’t understand. Things that bother but go away briefly the moment I realise how vague they are for what I actually care about. But there are things gathering in webs. In networks. As if they are building up to a mass-distruction weapon that would automatically work as a suture for your broken world. Funny how things work though: you soon figure out that the mass-distruction weapon is meant to target you. To break you. To squash you. To kill you. And then it seems as if everyone knew. Everyone else but you. They all knew and it is just in that moment that you understand their look and all the hope for a sort of superiority and fairplay on behalf of the almighty deity vanishes, for you know, from that moment on, how alone you are on this fucking world and how even the most colourless stranger seems to know a hell of a lot more about yourself than you do. And even the most hopeless dying bird out there is luckier than you and your hopes for a better world or, from a more selfish and self-centered point of view, better for you. Well there you are. Funny, isn’t it? Apparently all the mass of wisdom is not better. The elite rules from the shadow of doubt, from lack of everything that would ever make a great person. Do I find it funny as well? Of course not. And you know why? Because it’s me that they’re laughing at right now. And it shouldn’t be this way. And what do I do about it? Nothing at all. I’m waiting for my own weapon of mass-destruction (and now, to make it even more melodramatic and tragic: God save you all).